


Impact

by Amaradex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaradex/pseuds/Amaradex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John watches Sherlock fall and then deals with the impact on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Take my hand.”

It was the last way he’d ever dreamt that he’d hear those words from Sherlock’s mouth, and yet a part of him knew that he should have expected it. It wasn’t that he thought Sherlock was the sort to do anything worth getting arrested (he might once have said “anything illegal”, but he knew better now). It wasn’t even that he’d thought that he personally would do anything worth getting arrested (though that idea should have occurred when he’d been arrested in place of Raz). It was simply the fact that around Sherlock, one could almost always expect the unexpected. Possibly also the fact that Sherlock had a habit of rubbing people the wrong way and showed no inclination to respect the police.

He knew that Sherlock was right about Moriarty having set him up. He also knew that they would have been better off if Sherlock had gone in for questioning, as they would have been able to bail him out (or Mycroft could have, if nothing else). Punching the chief superintendent had been instinct, something he wouldn’t have done had he thought about it. That didn’t stop him from thinking that maybe he had done it just so Sherlock wouldn’t be in a jail cell alone.

And now here they were, running down streets and alleys handcuffed together, Sherlock leading the way as always, John flapping behind him like a loose sheet.

“We're going to need to coordinate,” he managed to say when they were held up by the iron fence that Sherlock had hopped with ease. The thoughts cleared from Sherlock’s eyes for just a moment, long enough for him to assess the situation, consider John’s words and then decide what to do.

“Go to your right,” he ordered simply, and once again John found himself doing exactly as he was told. Someone had told him that he followed Sherlock in as much as he took what the detective said and did the opposite, but John rather thought that he obeyed Sherlock far more often than he spited him.

This time, obeying was the right thing to do – they didn’t have time for him to do anything else. With the taller man’s help, John was up and over the fence and they were once again pelting down strange back-streets and alleyways, searching for something (God only knew what). Until Sherlock threw them in front of a bus.

If he’d had the time, John might have admired Sherlock’s conviction in what he had been able to induce, but the few seconds between Sherlock’s rapid-fire thinking out loud and his action weren’t enough to breathe, never mind think. Afterward, John was rather occupied by the flash of pure terror-driven adrenaline and then the murder of their saviour to think about it.

The journalist’s house had been a surprise, not the destination he’d been expecting, though maybe the newspaper should have been enough to give it away. Expect the unexpected, he reminded himself, knowing that it would never be possible for him to parse all the possible outcomes and determine which were the least likely. Sherlock probably could. Then again, Moriarty’s appearance had been a surprise for both of them, so maybe not.

After discovering Moriarty’s genius plan (though John couldn’t tell what exactly the goal of it all was beyond smearing Sherlock, even if Sherlock thought there was more), they were off again. When Sherlock said he needed to go on alone, John occupied his time by confronting Mycroft. He might not be as brilliant as Sherlock or even Mycroft, but he knew full well that only two people could have given Moriarty the information he had used and revealed and one of them most certainly hadn’t (he wouldn’t ever – current cases might be fair game, but Sherlock’s past was a gift that he wasn’t about to share).

Mycroft’s admission of error gave John heart, though it took him a while to determine why. He finally realized that if Mycroft could be so wrong (spectacularly, really), then perhaps Sherlock’s doom-and-gloom attitude was based on a similarly incorrect presumption. John knew that the detective had thought he was hiding his odd mood from his companion, but the lanky man had forgotten that, of all things, doctors are most tuned in to the way a person is feeling and how their body reacts to that. Even Sherlock’s play at appearing normal hadn’t worked on him – he’d seen the slumped shoulders, forehead crease, and slowed gait. Sherlock might be almost as good at acting as he was at observing, but he still wasn’t good enough to fool John’s trained doctor instincts.


	2. Chapter 2

It was with some trepidation that John met up with Sherlock at St Bart’s. He didn't know what to expect, but Sherlock seemed to be back to his normal self. He was speaking at a rapid rate, figuring out how to put things back the way they were supposed to be. John wished he could be of more help, but all he could think of was simple, obvious questions. "What did he touch?" "Did he write anything down?"

Sherlock didn't say anything else after his last harsh "No", retreating back into his thoughts. They were silent for quite some time, John wracking his brain for anything that could help. He knew the best way to figure things out would be to head back to 221B, but the police would be watching it. Slowly, his eyes drooped and his head began to cant, first to one side then the other.

The phone call that awoke him was like his worst nightmare, only with a slightly different name. Still, Mrs. Hudson meant a great deal to him and as soon as the reality sunk into his brain, he was poised to race to her aid. Sherlock's regression into himself seemed like nothing more than an annoyance at that point, not a sign of anything more than his self-centred nature.

"Sod this," he finally declared. "You stay here, if you want, on your own." If he'd been thinking, he would have processed what Sherlock's response was through the Sherlock-to-English dictionary he'd built. Instead, he responded to the man's "alone protects me" with a rather trite "No, friends protect people." If he'd thought the statement through, maybe he wouldn't have said it and maybe things would have been different.

He should have known better, he thinks once he's raced home only to discover that Mrs. Hudson is fine. He can't say who set it up, Moriarty or Sherlock, but he knows deep in his soul that it was done to get him out of the way so they can have another battle of wills and brains.

He's in a cab on his way back to St Bart's when he gets the feeling that he's not going to like what he finds when he gets back. Logical, he thinks, considering he's almost certain that Moriarty has come to meet with Sherlock. Still, the uneasy feeling doesn't go away, only getting stronger the closer he gets. It peaks just as the cab pulls over to the kerb, even as his phone begins to ring.

"John," Sherlock says in response to his greeting answer, his breathing heavy. It terrifies John, though his voice is steady as he walks towards the building, asking Sherlock if he's okay. The terror only increases as the other man orders him away from the building, his voice breaking.

When he says "please" in that broken voice, John's heart skips a beat and then drops. He doesn't argue, just asks for further direction. Something isn't right, he knows.

"Oh God," he says when Sherlock directs his eyes up to the roof. His heart plummets even further and yet somehow simultaneously ends up in his throat. His breathing speeds up, his mind racing as he tries to understand what is going on, why Sherlock can't come down, why the genius with no heart is apologizing and telling him all the lies are true.

He knows better, damn it. Doesn't Sherlock realize that he's seen him in action, figuring him out with nothing to go on but his body and his phone? How can he expect John to believe that he's a fraud, a fake, when he knows better. He won't pass the lie on to others, not when he knows the truth. Not when he knows that Sherlock really can be that clever, that he is a genius. And now he knows that he has a heart, because he can hear the tears in the deep voice.

The plummeting of his heart matches the pace of the body falling through the air, coat flapping in the wind. The whole world goes into slow motion, sounds fading away. He doesn't even hear himself scream Sherlock's name, doesn't realise that it takes him nearly fifteen seconds to start moving. The bike is just an added delay in an already time-stopped period. He's moving, he knows he is, but it's not enough, it will never be enough.

The next few minutes are a blur with moments of painful clarity. He knows he's pushed his way through to Sherlock's side when he feels the wrist under his fingers, still warm but with no pulse. He's pulled away, his legs not cooperating, leaving him slumped between two people. The next clear thing is the sight of Sherlock's face covered in blood, his light eyes (more grey than the sky above or the concrete below, oh GOD) staring into nothingness. They take him away and it's all John can do to remember to breathe. He's finally brought back by the rain and is able to shake off the nurses who are attending to him even as he contemplates the fact that even the sky is crying. He doesn't realize that he's not, that he's just standing there, breathing and staring at the door they took Sherlock through.

Eventually Lestrade arrives, though John doesn't know how he found out or why he came. He finds himself back at 221B, no doubt thanks to the detective inspector, but as he looks around all he can see is the holes where Sherlock should be. It doesn't take him more than a day to realize that he just can't be there any more. He moves in with Harry, promising himself that it will only be temporary, though it burns another (smaller) hole in his heart when Mrs. Hudson cries at his departure.

He makes it to the funeral, though only because Lestrade and Harry march him there sandwiched between them. He is dry-eyed throughout the ceremony, observing those around him through a fog. Mrs Hudson's eyes and nose are reddened from her crying and she looks lost amongst all the bigger bodies around her. Molly is there, as dry-eyed as him, though she too looks lost. He'd expected more emotion from her, but perhaps the rumours have finally broken her worship of Sherlock. Donovan is there, her face stony but her eyes downcast and filled with sorrow. Anderson has thankfully made himself scarce - John doesn't think he could handle the forensic analyst right now. Mycroft and the woman that must be "Mummy" are standing at the front of the crowd just opposite John. He wishes he'd met her before now, but he doubts that he'll remember her face in a week. It's probably for the best.

When it's over and the dirt has been ceremonially thrown in by John, Lestrade, and Mycroft, people begin to leave. John stands still, not moving, staring at the marker where the ebony gravestone will go and at the hole where the black-and-gold edge of Sherlock's coffin is still just visible. Lestrade and Mycroft stand a few paces behind him, neither moving nor speaking while they watch him grieve in his own way. He finally turns to them, eyes rimmed in white, and walks back to the cars that are still waiting for them.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the quiet that got to him the most, John realized two months after Sherlock had jumped (and he still couldn't think that he was dead, not just gone). It was a new flat, of course, one he shared with a young officer who was, for the most part, gone when John was there. Lestrade had recommended the flat, for which John was grateful. He was speaking to Lestrade again after finally accepting that the detective inspector had done only what he had been forced to and had done his best to help them. The fact that Sherlock's arrest warrant and record had managed to disappear was also a strong recommendation.

Lestrade and work were two of the things keeping him sane. John had found work in an emergency room as a triage doctor: it was the most exciting thing he had been able to find with his experience. He knew that the one thing Sherlock would have asked of him was that he not become boring and so he was doing his best. He even talked about cases with Lestrade on occasion, though the detective inspector was now careful not to let him see any of the actual documentation. John knew he wasn't much help, but he appreciated the semblance of what had once been normality.

In his free time (and God, what a lot of it he had now), he watched and rewatched the surveillance tapes of his last conversation with Sherlock, the phone call that ended it all. He'd demanded the tapes from Mycroft three days after it had happened (not asking if the man had sat there and watched as his brother jumped into nothingness - he'd never ask that). The man who commanded so much gave in to John's own command without a hint of a fight, transferring the footage to a DVD, first the view of Sherlock, then the one of John (and in return, he doesn't ask why the shots of both of them are so clear and perfect).

John had paid to have a lip-reader write down the text of what both he and Sherlock said, interlaced so he could read the conversation properly. It's the conversation he couldn't stop dreaming of, but could never remember perfectly word-for-word when he's awake. Somewhere in there, he told himself, there's the code to finding out where Sherlock is and why he's had to hide himself away. Why he had to "die".

John had been cleared of all charges to do with punching the chief superintendent. Another thing he owed Lestrade, he supposed, though the injured man himself had been surprisingly kind, saying through his broken nose that he understood what it was like to have your trust betrayed and your world view shattered. He had offered a verbal warning in return for community service and John had just nodded, biting his lip to keep from pointing out that his anger hadn't been at Sherlock's betrayal but at the fact that everyone else was honestly considering that he had done any of it.

He was nearly done his community service now, having rushed through it as something to occupy his time, something to distract him from the surveillance videos and his transcript. He'd been avoiding his therapist for the past two and a half weeks. Mrs. Hudson too, though it wasn't her fault that he'd finally broken when they'd visited Sherlock's grave (he was still begging in his mind, please just don't be dead, one last gift for a friend who had given so much). He was slowly running out of people to talk to, though he fully intended to contact Mrs. Hudson with an apology soon.

Mycroft had visited just once since the funeral, another attempt at an apology that had fallen on John's deaf ears. The man had sat in the chair that John had shipped from 221B, the chair that was Sherlock's (it was still Sherlock’s even if he might never sit in it again). The doctor had bit back his anger with will, waiting patiently as Mycroft toyed with his umbrella and muttered out platitudes and excuses. The elder Holmes brother was looking quite drawn, thinner than John had ever seen him. The doctor considered commenting on the fact that losing one’s only brother was the best sort of diet, but it was too close to something Sherlock would say. Despite Mycroft’s closed-off face, John could tell that he was missing his brother and the doctor could no longer bring himself to hate the taller man. Instead he sat in silence, watching as Mycroft sipped at the weak tea John had forced himself to make. When he was done, Mycroft had politely said goodbye and left. John wasn’t sure if he was glad that he hadn’t seen the tall man since.


	4. Chapter 4

John knew that he was lonely in a rather abstract way. He rarely went out alone, the hatred and anger that had surrounded Sherlock having moved on to him. He didn’t like being accosted with accusations of “supporting the fraud” any more than he liked being pitied for “being taken in by the fraud”. His few remaining friends had taken it upon themselves to act as a buffer between him and the cruelty of society, escorting him around on most of his errands and outings. It was the frequency of his trips beyond the hospital and his flat that told him how his social life was doing. In the past week, he had only been out once with Harry, to go collect groceries. His sister had been uncharacteristically silent the entire time, just glaring at anyone who dared to glance at John in a curious way.

Lestrade was caught up in a case, he knew, too busy even to play at involving John. Mrs. Hudson had been having hip problems again; bad enough that even her soothers weren’t helping. Mycroft was still avoiding him (not that John blamed him – it probably hurt Mycroft to see John just as much as it hurt John to see Mycroft). He’d run into Molly a couple of times around St. Bart’s, but he was doing his best to avoid the hospital and their friendship had really just been based around Sherlock anyway. Most of his friends from before the war had been avoiding him since Sherlock’s “death”, though he certainly hadn’t been trying to get in touch with them. Mike had e-mailed and called a few times and though he always avoided the topic of Sherlock, John got the impression that he too believed that Sherlock had been for real (though he didn’t believe that Sherlock was still alive somewhere, only John did).

"Ye need t' get out, mate," John's new flatmate Nick said to him that evening, one of the few times they were both in the flat at the same time. "I don' think ye've been out but t' go t' work in a week." The young sergeant was a true Scotsman from his broad flat feet to his reddish-blond hair, cropped as mercilessly short as John's to hide the curl in it. He was as far as he could get from looking like Sherlock, with a barrel chest and a burly fighter's body. John couldn't decide if it would be worse to be living with someone who constantly reminded him of his friend or living with someone who is wrong in every way possible. He does his best not to let his feelings show on the rare occasions that he does have to spend time with Nick, but he does flinch every time he opens the fridge and finds a fresh pint of milk waiting for him.

"'Out' isn't the friendliest place," he said in response to the man's original point, trying to keep his tone friendly. The sergeant shrugged one of his shoulders in acceptance. 

"Ye just need an escort, like what Lestrade does with ye. Me and some of th' lads are goin' to th' pub. Ye're welcome t' come along if ye'd like." John eyed him warily, unsure of how to feel about the invitation. He didn't know that he could trust the normally dour man to actually protect him, but the idea of getting out for the night and (hopefully, at least) forgetting about Sherlock appealed to him. 

"None of them are th' sort t' badger ye over yer friend, if that's what ye're worried about," Nick reassured him, seemingly having interpreted his silence. That small flash of induction made John's heart beat just a slight bit faster for a moment. His reaction, in turn, made his decision obvious. If he was to the point where anyone showing basic people-reading skills made him think of (long for, really) Sherlock, he needed to get out, to clear his head.

Pub night with Nick’s “lads” wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. In a way, it reminded him of what his life should have been like, maybe even would have ended up as, without Sherlock’s overwhelming presence. It was simple, a bunch of men (he could ignore the fact that most were a decade younger than him) gathering for a pint and a match. They were fairly evenly split between those with women waiting for them at home and confirmed bachelors. John now counted himself solidly amongst the latter group – he hadn’t felt the urge to flirt with a woman since Sherlock had jumped.

He drank a little more than he probably should have, enjoying the way that the alcohol and company numbed him. Nick had to half-carry him back to their flat, depositing him unceremoniously on the hard bed John had taken from Sherlock’s room (he could convince himself it still smelled like cigarettes and formaldehyde, two smells he strongly associated with his friend). John knew that he would feel like hell in the morning, but the blurred, dulled sensations were worth it. For one blessed night, he wouldn’t count the hours he’d spent alone and abandoned.


	5. Chapter 5

Three months, two weeks, four days and twenty hours since he had seen Sherlock tumbling from the top of St Barts (he didn’t even have to do the math anymore – one glance at the clock told him exactly how long it had been). The sound of a coat snapping in the breeze of his descent was what woke John from his drunken sleep, though he knew it was nothing but a dream. He sighed and rubbed his bleary eyes knowing he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep – he never was.

He stumbled downstairs in a bleary daze, bypassing everything and making a beeline for the kitchen. With a kettle on to boil, he mustered the energy to fetch the paper from where it was leaning up against the front door. Nick must have had to work an early shift - he usually brought the paper in and occasionally even had a kettle filled and ready to put on. It was the kind of thoughtfulness most people dreamt of in a roommate and it made John's teeth hurt.

It wasn't until the water was boiled and the tea steeping in the Brown Betty teapot Mrs. Hudson had pressed on him that he went to fetch the milk. He was surprised to find the fridge empty - Nick had been so good about ensuring that there was always milk because he knew that John preferred his tea with milk (another thing that bothered the doctor an inordinate amount). Something just wasn't right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He fixed his tea without the milk, sipping on the bitter brew that reminded him of days spent with Sherlock sulking in complete silence and other days when the detective was near manic. The paper held his attention for a few moments before a gurgle in the pit of his stomach reminded him that he needed to eat. He slid two pieces of bread into the toaster (the presence of the bread reassured him - bread was another thing he and Sherlock had always been out of) and proceeded to slather them with jam.

He contemplated eating in the kitchen over his first few bites, but the remainder of the alcohol pulsing in his veins made him just dizzy enough to veto the idea. The small dining room just off the kitchen wasn't quite what he wanted, so he headed on to the sitting room, intending to sit in his chair and stare at Sherlock's in quiet contemplation. The night out with Nick and his mates had been nice, but it had also rekindled the bone-deep ache of his loss. He knew it would subside in time, becoming more familiar, like the phantom pain in his leg.

He wasn't expecting there to be anyone else around and he certainly wasn't expecting that person to have pulled Sherlock's chair right up to the window so that whoever he was - or she - could bask in the sun's rays.

"Nick's out, if you're looking for him," he said roughly, swallowing down the lump in his thriat at the sight of someone he didn't know sitting in Sherlock's chair. He knew it had to be one of Nick's friends - none of his own would have come in without him being aware of it (and only Mycroft would dare sit in that chair).

"I'm not here for your idiot flatmate, John," a devastatingly familiar voice drawled with impatience. Sherlock's familiar frame stretched up and away from his chair and John felt his knees go weak.

"We're out of milk," his supposedly dead best friend said casually, as though there was nothing untoward about strolling back into somebody's life three months, two weeks, four days and twenty-one hours after they'd last seen you bleeding out onto paving stones.

The next thing John knew, he'd collapsed onto the floor, his legs unable to support him anymore. His eyes, nose, and throat were all burning and his mouth tasted like bile. Sherlock was hovering over him, restless and obviously unsure of what to do. It took John a few minutes to realize that he was mindlessly and repeatedly muttering "Oh God" (and that just took him back to that horrid day). It wasn't until Sherlock passed him a handkerchief that John realized he'd been crying. He had to force himself to breathe deeply, each second that passed giving him slightly better control of himself.

When he finaly felt like the world wasn't spinning out of control underneath him, he drew a deep breath and looked up at the other man. At some point, Sherlock had perched himself precariously on the edge of the side table and now the lanky man was staring at his friend with an expression equal parts horrified and saddened. John manfully forced himself to smile, though he knew it was obvious that his heart wasn't in it.

"I didn't know you were a ginger," he said in an attempt to lighten the mood. Sherlock half-raised a hand to his head, then let it flutter back to his lap (John watched with sick fascination as it mirrors the fall he still couldn't forget).

"I'm not," Sherlock finally said. "It was just easier to hide if I changed what I could about my appearance." When that John looked closer, he could see that Sherlock's hair was in the process of growing out from a shorter crop, with the curls still corkscrewing in protest. His lips twitched into a smile.

"Indeed. You hardly look yourself." John laughed at the indignant look he received, but somehow the laughter turned into tears. He knew that he was crying this time, the sobs wracking his body. Suddenly, Sherlock was beside him, reaching out to place an unsure hand on the doctor's shoulder. The physical contact was what snapped the last bit of John's self-control and he flung himself at Sherlock, hugging his friend tightly and sobbing into his chest.

The entirely foreign feeling of Sherlock wrapping his arms around him was what finally soothed John, allowing him to breathe and turn his face just enough to speak.

"You shouldn't have left me," he said simply, not angrily, though he knew that would come later.

"He was going to kill you, John. You and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I had to seem to die." John shook his head slightly.

"I figured as much. You could have found a way to take me with you." When Sherlock merely shrugged, John pulled back to look him fully in the eyes. "Never again, Sherlock. Promise me you won't do something like this ever again." Long moments passed before Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around John again.

"I promose John. Never again." For now, John thought, that was enough.


End file.
